


For King and Country

by M_Moonshade



Series: Well Met in Knight Vale [1]
Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medieval, Cecil Is Not Described, Cecil can be a bit of a dick sometimes, Earl Harlan Week, M/M, but he means well
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-08
Updated: 2014-05-08
Packaged: 2018-01-23 23:48:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1583882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/M_Moonshade/pseuds/M_Moonshade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As far as wishes go, “to always serve my king and country” is a very noble and impressive one, but it doesn’t have the dramatic flair that King Cecil is so fond of.</p><p> </p><p>So Cecil decides to take Sir Harlan’s wish into his own hands.</p>
            </blockquote>





	For King and Country

**Author's Note:**

> I know that the series title is in Renfaire-speak, but I promise, I don't actually use that in the fic. I wouldn't torture your poor eyeballs that way.

Swords blazed. Armor flashed silver in the sunlight. The crowd cheered, nearly drowning out the clang of metal on metal, and then that clattering thump as a fully-armored body toppled into the mud.

The fallen man tried to scramble upright, but he collapsed backward, his arms outspread, one hand twitching weakly in admission of defeat. The crowd erupted into cheers while the crier tried to get a word in edgewise to announce the winner.

King Cecil Gershwin Palmer, Voice of the Vale, Defender of the Bloodstone, Chosen by the Tablets, yadda yadda yadda, made a show of paying attention to the official stuff, but anyone watching his eyes could see they were on the new champion.

Sir Harlan’s bright red hair was soaked with sweat when he pulled off his helmet, his whole body heaving as he gasped for breath. The metal armor he wore would have made an effective oven, and that wasn’t even counting the layers of padding beneath it, or the summer sun beating down on the entire crowd.

Sir Harlan bent low and helped Sir al-Mujaheed to his feet, the two of them staggering under their combined weight. A handful of palace guards rushed out to meet them, taking their captain off Harlan’s hands and leading him back to the shade, one of them wiping his forehead with a wet handkerchief while another started the work of unfastening the intricate platework. When he was sure his opponent was well taken care of, Harlan turned his gaze to his own cadets. As soon as they noticed his scrutiny, their whoops and whistles fell silent, and they formed into the orderly ranks befitting the military’s advance scouts. At their signal, the rest of the crowd went quiet, until all that could be heard was the stomp of hooves and the faint buzzing of trained flies.

That was one of the perks of having Sir Harlan at events like these-- he had a knack for cutting short unnecessary cheering, and he’d been known to shave as much as an hour off a ceremony. It made everyone’s life that much more pleasant.

Satisfied with the silence, Cecil Spoke.

He talked of courage and cleverness, strength and virility-- that got some blushes and chuckles from younger members of the audience, but the older ones knew better. They understood the benedictions folded into every word of the speech, its magic taking root in everyone who heard him, blessing and reinforcing the people of Night Vale. Notably, Sir Harlan was blushing profusely-- though that might have been an early warning of heat exhaustion.

Cecil added an aside about good health, fast recovery, and longevity, just to be safe.

“Sir Earl Dexter Harlan.” He tightened the focus of the magic around the champion. To his credit, the soldier kept his eyes fixed on his king, but he twitched just slightly at the feel of so much magic swirling around him. Less disciplined individuals had been known to start howling and clawing at their ears, or at least fall to their knees. “Your actions have impressed Night Vale. It’s not an easy thing to do-- and it deserves a reward.”

Harlan’s adam’s apple bobbed.

It was a wish-- unlimited except in its quantity. Old Woman Josie had used a similar boon to call her old adventuring companions back to her side from beyond the grave; Marcus Vansten had wished himself fabulously wealthy; the Sheriff had created a watchtower in the clouds.

Harlan’s eyes were locked with Cecil’s, long and intense. His adam’s apple bobbed. This was going to be one hell of a wish, Cecil could feel it in his bones.

He opened his mouth, and half of Night Vale held its breath.

“My only wish is to always serve my king and country.”

It took Cecil a whole lot of last-second self-restraint not to let the disappointment show on his face. Magic like this wasn’t offered up every day; it seemed such a waste not to use it on something a bit more… _creative_ than that.

But already he could hear dissatisfied sighs among the people, and that wasn’t fair at all.

“Truly a noble and selfless request,” he said, adding just enough persuasive undertones to his words to turn the crowd’s letdown into admiration. “What you ask is yours.”

It was almost redundant. What Harlan had asked for was his anyway-- everyone knew that the guy was as loyal and unwavering as they came. It was like giving a fish permission to swim, and that simply wouldn’t do.

It was borderline _embarrassing_.

No, Cecil had every intention of granting a wish-- a properly interesting one, if he had any say in the matter.

And he knew how to make that happen.

* * *

 

Okay, so maybe it was cheating to break out the royal wine. But this _was_ a royal banquet, after all. And Earl had done a good job-- he deserved the good stuff. Besides, he was being infuriatingly tight-lipped about this whole wish thing. Everybody had something they really wanted, and it was unfair not to give Cecil at least a hint.

Theoretically, Cecil could have used his Voice to pry the truth out of him, but that was an entirely different magnitude of cheating, and not one he was going to throw around lightly. So he stuck with the more socially acceptable form of underhanded connivery, and got the man shit-faced instead.

The trick was to keep his goblet full and to keep him talking-- too much conversation was bound to leave him thirsty, and keeping his mouth occupied would keep him from scarfing down anything that would soak up the alcohol before it could properly intoxicate him.

It wasn’t hard, this being a party and all. Plenty of people stopped by their table to pay respects to the king and congratulate his new champion, some stopped to flirt or to drop not-so-subtle hints about the availability of their friends and family members. Cecil’s niece Janice spent a good twenty minutes recapping the entirety of the tournament, blushing when Earl kissed her hand like a grown-up princess and gushing when he gave her pointers on what sorts of weapons would be best suited to a warrior her size, until the (unsightly, pig-headed) Prince of Carlsberg shooed her back to his table.

When other people weren’t around to coax Earl into conversation, Cecil was more than happy to do it himself. Harlan wasn’t one to brag about himself, but he could go on forever about the troops who worked with him, the things they’d accomplished, how much each one had improved since joining the ranks.

It was heartwarming, and not just because of the wine-induced warmth seeping through Cecil’s skin.

“You really do care about your troops,” Cecil said, filling Earl’s goblet to the brim while Harlan’s attention was on his face. “I’m surprised you didn’t ask for anything on their behalf.”

“No, I couldn’t.” Harlan waved his hand. “My scouts-- it would hurt their pride, being given something they hadn't earned.”

“Oh, everybody says stuff like that,” Cecil said.

“No, I mean it.” He looked dead serious. “A while back I sent through a requisition to get them better beds, and they panicked. Asked if they’d been too lax in maintaining their barracks, or if I didn’t think they were capable of producing their own. Really, self-sufficiency is a virtue, but it can make things damn complicated.” He caught himself a moment too late, blushing crimson. “Er… please pardon my language, Your Majesty.”

“Call me Cecil.” So the drink was finally kicking in. Cecil had been starting to wonder if Earl wasn’t part fish. Not that there was anything wrong with that. “Wouldn’t it be a good example, then, to show them how to accept gifts? Like with that reward of yours.”

Was it his imagination, or was Harlan blushing?

“No, I really couldn’t.” The long swig of wine seemed pointedly desperate.

“Why not?”

“Because it’s-- it’s-really-not-appropriate.” The words spilled out all at once. Instantly Harlan changed the subject, diving headfirst into a story about giant scorpions near the Pine Cliffs border. Cecil pretended to be thoroughly engrossed in the story, but it was too late. His interest was piqued.

The night wore on,  and Cecil watched and waited with a patience known only to politicians and spiders, emptying another bottle into Harlan’s goblet, and another. It wasn’t long before Earl was sweating, a near-permanent flush in his cheeks, his pupils wide and unfocused, his words slurred together.

“So, Harlan--”

“Earl,” the other man mumbled. “If I c’n call you Cecil, you c’n call me Earl.”

“Earl.” Cecil wrapped his entire mouth around the name, drawing the single syllable into three. Judging by the odd smile on Earl’s face, the attention was appreciated. “Be honest with me. Really. Service to the crown can’t be all you want out of life.”

Earl shook with a poorly suppressed giggle.

Cecil leaned forward conspiratorially, arching like a cat. “Can it?”

“It can if you’re the one in the crown, Cecil,” Earl finally said, the words falling out all at once, grinning wide and dopey, and oh yes, he was definitely drunk. “I wouldn’t mind servicing you one bit.”

That caught Cecil by surprise, but Earl was too schlockered to notice.  “Is that so?”

“Uh-huh. Think about it sometimes… come back from a mission and you’d be sooo proud of me, and you’d just-- you’d just--” Earl blinked, like he’d only just realized what he was saying. “Never mind. Shouldn’t be saying that sorta thing to you. Iss inaproprianatorate. Orate.” He frowned and counted on his fingers. “How many syllables does the word have again?”

Cecil glanced at the bottles. How many had they put away? He wasn’t feeling horribly clear-headed himself anymore.

“Why do you think it would be…” Damn, it really _was_ hard to say. “Inappropriate?”

“Cuz you’re the king, and the Voice, and perfect, and _you_.” Earl stared up at him, wide-eyed and red-faced, looking absurdly childlike despite his battle scars and imposing physique. “Soldiers ‘n kings don’t get all sweet on each other, ‘n they don’t get all cozy in bed t’gether, ‘n I shouldn’t even be saying all this, cuz you’re not s’posed to know.”

A new wave of heat rose to Cecil’s face, and he swallowed. “Why… exactly… shouldn’t I know?”

“B’cuz I wanna pretend. I dun want you t’ tell me I’m bein’ stupid for…” He blinked, and Masters, there were tears in his eyes. “I don’t want you t’... you shouldn’t know, or you’ll…”

He swayed, caught between crying and passing out into his soup. Panicked, Cecil put an arm around his shoulders to steady him, and Earl slid easily into the crook of his neck.

That wasn’t exactly kingly behavior, but this late into the banquet, nobody was watching-- not even Prince Carlsberg, who would have loved to torment him about it later. Besides, it was more acceptable for a king to get chummy after a few drinks than it was for his champion to break down in the middle of a party.

The thought sent a stab of guilt through Cecil. He’d been curious, sure, but he hadn’t meant to hurt the poor guy. And maybe it was the booze talking, but he wasn’t entirely sure why Earl was so upset in the first place. It wasn’t like Cecil’s preferences were a secret-- and Earl wasn’t exactly a chore to look at, either.

So who was to say something couldn’t happen…?

Aside from the fact that Earl was stone drunk, of course. Cecil sighed and beckoned with his unoccupied hand. A few seconds later, one of the bright-eyed servants appeared at his side.

“Can I get you anything, Your Majesty?” she asked.

“Sir Harlan had a bit too much to drink.” Now that was the understatement of the evening. He glanced at her, and then back around the banquet. Vithya was stronger than she looked, but she was still young, and frankly, Earl was huge. “It looks like Chad and Maureen are free. I want the three of you to get him into a bed so he can sleep it off. Make sure he’s got plenty of water and hangover cures at his disposal. Anything you can think of.  And see if Old Woman Josie has any tricks up her sleeve.”

Vithya bobbed her head and hurried off, leaving Cecil and Earl alone in the crowd.

* * *

 

_Earl Harlan likes me._

Even after the last of the alcohol had left his system and he was neck-deep in royal duties, the idea hadn’t lost its appeal.

Cecil’s own feelings on the matter were a bit more muddled, but really, why shouldn’t he give it a try?

All those tournaments had given Cecil several memorable views of the soldier in various states of exertion, and honestly, the scars were sexy.

And Earl was loyal. More than that, devoted. And honorable. And absolutely adorable, when he started chattering about his cadets like a proud mother hen doting on her chicks.

The memory prompted a fond chuckle from Cecil, which earned him a round of glares from the City Council. He covered the laugh with a discreet cough. For now he had to put thoughts of Earl Harlan aside and get back to discussions on the future candidates for mayor.

But now that the seed was planted, it was growing like a weed. Not the kind of weed that got yanked out by the roots, either, but the kind that got watered and watched in case it turned out to be some new and unrecognized variety of non-carnivorous flower.

Time passed. The summer began to cool into fall, and things began to settle down. Farmers were busy with the early harvests, they were hiring day laborers, and with so many people busy and winter on the horizon, nobody was much in the mood for war.

Things were surprisingly quiet for once. But the thing about quiet days was that they often left room for boredom. And boredom inspired questionable decisions.

Like summoning Sir Harlan back to the palace.

* * *

 

Earl's uniform was clean and polished--  an impressive feat, considering he and his scouts had just returned from patrolling Night Vale’s borders the night before. But still the soldier looked wary.

Embarrassed? Upset?

No, concerned. Definitely concerned. Possibly about the fact that the throne room was entirely empty, aside from the two of them.

“Your Majesty, did our reports not get back to you?”

“Your rider submitted the report yesterday,” Cecil said. And, as expected, all was normal. The Glow Cloud had been subjugating a few more townspeople to its all-consuming will, the mysterious lights over the trade roads were staying well over any reasonable traffic, a feeling of despair lapped at the southern borders and was pushed back-- perfectly ordinary, for the most part. “I understand you ran into an outbreak of valentines?”

“It was only a small outbreak, Your Majesty,” Earl said. “We were able to dispatch them before they had the chance to fester.”

“That’s quite impressive, Earl.” Ooh, that was a nice effect. It was like a puppet master had jerked all Earl’s strings at the same time. Very nice indeed. Cecil rose from his throne. “I don’t need to be reminded just how dangerous valentines can be.”

“It was a small matter, really.” Earl was talking too quickly, covering up the beginnings of a stutter. “As I noted in my report, this outbreak was still too undeveloped to pose a threat.”

“But it could have, if you hadn’t caught it when you did.” Cecil took one step down from the raised platform, and Earl swallowed.

“Just doing my job, Your Majesty.”

“And you’re very good at your job,” Cecil said, taking another step toward him. “That’s why you’re my champion, after all.” Another step, and he could reach out and touch the soldier. “In all of Night Vale, there’s nobody else as capable as you, Earl. Or as determined. Or as loyal. Though you are a bit forgetful-- I believe I told you to call me by name. At the banquet after the summer tournament. Do you remember? We had a fascinating discussion about the request you made.”

Earl swallowed, his normal decorum cut through with the faintest veins of apprehension. “How can I serve you, my-- Cecil?”

The king couldn’t help but wonder how much of that was a slip.

“That’s not the request I’m talking about,” he said. He wasn’t using his Voice, but still the words hung in the air like floating lanterns.

The color drained from Earl’s face, but he kept his expression impressively neutral. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

Yes, you do.

“I believe your exact words were ‘ _I wouldn’t mind servicing you one bit_ ’.” That was one of the unadvertised perks of being the Voice-- an uncanny ability to quote conversations precisely, regardless of how much time had passed.

Earl’s concern immediately ran for cover, leaving flat-out panic to take its place. “I sincerely apologize for my behavior, Your-- Cecil. I would have done so earlier, but I assumed it was a dream-- I swear, I don’t normally drink so much, I don’t know what came over me--”

“You aren’t here to be punished, Earl.” _Well, not unless you ask nicely._ “I asked you a question and you answered it.”

“But I shouldn’t have,” Earl stammered. “It was-- it was vulgar of me, and completely inappropriate-- it would have been wrong to say to anyone, but to you-- you’re the _king_ \-- I completely overstepped my bounds. I would never presume--”

“How fortunate that you haven’t presumed anything,” Cecil said. “I’m offering.”

Earl’s eyes flickered in that moment-- from Cecil to the throne to the door that led deeper into the palace. “I-- I couldn’t.”

“But if you could, would you?”

Earl’s hand scrubbed down his face and came to a halt over his mouth, like it could lock in the words that waited there. He lowered his head, as if bowed in shame. Half a nod.

Cecil took the last step, leaving only inches between them. He hooked one long finger under Earl’s chin and tilted his head back up to face him.

“Tell me what you want and it’s yours.”

Slowly Earl lowered his hand. His breath was ragged. His eyes were bright. And slowly-- tentatively, like he thought Cecil would break-- he cupped Cecil’s face in his hands. Pulled him close.

Kissed him.

He tasted of sweat and campfires and desert winds. His lips were chapped from wind and cold, but they were gentle and delicate, every motion careful and deliberate. Cecil could melt into that kiss--

But all too soon it was over. Earl released him and took a step back, his arms at his sides, his back straight, his expression carefully composed.

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” he said.

And without another word, he turned and left.

* * *

 

Cecil couldn’t remember ever having been so confused without a spell or extra-planar influence being involved.

Earl wanted him. It was written in the way he avoided looking at Cecil at public functions, and the way he stared when he couldn’t make himself not look any longer. It was breathed in those not-quite-words he always started to say when they had any semblance of privacy, only to quickly swallow them down.

And it didn’t hurt that the Faceless Old Woman liked to inform Cecil whenever Earl brought himself off with his name on his lips.

And dammit, Cecil wanted him, too-- he wanted to feel those strong arms wrapped around him, wanted to feel that broad chest pressed against his, wanted to feel himself pinned to a wall, wanted to taste those lips again.

And Earl could see it. There was no way a scout as experienced as himself could miss those signs, not when they were mirrored so perfectly on his own face. Not after everything.

Cecil was trying to be respectful, but it had been two months of childish avoidance and it was getting on his last undersexed nerve, dammit. So he did the rational, adult thing and he chased Earl down. Not literally, of course-- he had a sneaking suspicion he’d never catch Sir Harlan in a foot race-- but in a conveniently planned tour of the army’s training facilities. He arrived earlier than announced, as per the Faceless Old Woman’s advice. Slightly sinister she may have been, but she made one hell of a spymaster.

Earl, as expected, was alone, organizing the training equipment for the new batch of cadets. If he noticed Cecil’s presence, he didn’t let on.

“Everything looks like it’s in good order,” Cecil declared, by way of introduction.

Earl kept his gaze locked on the nearest training dummy. “Yes, it does.”

Silent seconds ticked by between them.

This was getting them nowhere.

“You really should see someone about that faulty memory of yours,” Cecil said. “When most people get intimate, they usually remember to say something about it afterward.”

“Unless they know it shouldn’t be talked about.”

“What’s that even supposed to mean?” Screw civility-- this was getting ridiculous. Cecil grabbed Earl by the shoulder, and Earl let himself be turned.  It still felt like they had an obsidian wall between them, but at least they were facing each other now. “I want you, you want me. How is that so difficult?”

“It’s not--” Earl seemed to choke on the words. “It’s not appropriate.”

“You keep saying that.”

“It keeps being true. You’re-- dear Masters, you’re the king. You can’t-- not with a soldier.”

“And why not?” Cecil demanded.

“Don’t you get it?” Earl took a deep, shuddering breath. “Every decision you made involving the military would be called into question. Every piece of foreign policy. Every--”

“Let me worry about the politics.”

“I can’t!” Earl snapped. “Not when it’s my soldiers who will march on the front lines if something goes wrong. If something happens-- if you reject the wrong marriage proposal and they get offended-- if your advisors use our relationship to undermine your authority-- if there’s a war and I’m the cause-- I can’t live with that, Cecil. I can’t. So please, please don’t ask me to. Don’t tempt me with something I can’t have.”

The ozone taste of deja vu danced on Cecil’s tongue. Once again Earl was on the verge of tears. Once again he ached with the need to hold him.

But this time he restrained himself, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket instead and offering it to Earl.

“You’ve put a lot of thought into this, haven’t you.” It wasn’t a question. Earl didn’t answer.

* * *

 

Cecil avoided putting Earl into any more awkward positions after that. During banquets, he kept their conversations neutral and cordial. He called him Sir Harlan and let Earl call him Majesty. They met in public places, brimming with distractions to ward off temptation. But something had been broken between them, and they both felt the jagged edges of it. They managed it, as Earl had before, with avoidance: Earl went off on ever-longer quests, and Cecil busied himself with politics and avoided thinking about his champion whenever he could get away with it.

Which was why, when he was handed a decree with Earl’s name on it, he hesitated.

“What’s this?” he asked absently of the advisor who handed it to him.

“A promotion for Sir Harlan,” said the councilperson. “It’s the highest honor he can be given.”

An honor. Earl deserved that-- something he could accept without fear of the consequences.

Cecil signed without a second glance. Only two words caught his eye before he moved on to paperwork on the invisible corn trade.

_Eternal Scout._

* * *

 

Months passed. The ceremony for Earl’s promotion was undertaken by the military and the city council and whatever other miscellaneous powers took interest in it. Cecil, for his part, stayed out of it.

He tried to, anyway.

Until the night before the ceremony, nearly a year since Earl had made his drunken confession. The night was dark and unusually cold. An odd, bitter wind pulled at the trees and whistled through the windows, determined not to let Cecil sleep. Instead he curled up in his favorite chair, wrapped around one of the few books the City Council approved for reading. The Faceless Old Woman kept offering to bring him contraband materials that weren’t quite so dry, but Cecil had gotten enough lectures about setting an example for his subjects to last a lifetime.

And besides, these stupid books were practically an antidote for insomnia.

But tonight was a windy, blustery night, and the book wasn’t working its usual magic. Which was probably a good thing, or else he wouldn’t have heard the soft rap at his door.

“Your Majesty?” Dana said, her voice just barely sliding under the crack in the door. Someone was with her-- usually she called him by his name unless there was a chance someone else could hear.

Hastily he put down the book and climbed to his feet, righting the housecoat that had fallen past his shoulders. “I’m awake, Dana. You may come in.”

The door opened softly, and the servant stepped inside. “Sir Harlan asked to see you.”

He was absurdly grateful it was Dana who’d come with the news. As tired as he was, Cecil couldn’t keep the apprehensive surprise off his face. Anyone else might have started asking awkward questions, but Dana offered him a tiny smile as reassurance. He’d explain when he felt like it, and she wouldn’t pry.

“Go ahead and let him in,” he said when he’d regained control of his features, and she opened the door wide behind her.

Earl was in his uniform, as always, and for a ridiculous moment Cecil wondered if he slept in it, too. The man was dedicated enough.

Earl’s face was a mask, as carefully blank as Cecil’s own.

Dana glanced from one to the other and bowed her head. “Would you like me to get you something to drink, Your Majesty?”

Cecil hesitated. Wine would have been traditional, but... “Tea will be fine, Dana.”

“Right away, Your Majesty.” She bowed and stepped back outside, shutting the door behind her and leaving Cecil and Earl alone.

For nearly a minute, the only sound between them was the erratic ticking of the clock and the whisper of the wind.

“I hope I didn’t wake you,” Earl finally said. There was an odd silence where ‘Your Majesty’ fought with ‘Cecil’ for space in the sentence, and both of them died in the melee.

“Not at all,” Cecil replied. “I was just reading.”

“Oh?”

“Yes.”

Another moment ticked by.

“Any good?” Earl asked.

“Not really.”

An awkwardness stretched out between them, broken only when Dana returned with the tea. Cecil considered not sending her away this time-- surely she could think of something to talk about-- but Earl wouldn’t have come here in the dead of night if he’d wanted an audience for their conversation.

“So,” Earl finally said, once Dana had excused herself once again. “The Eternal Scout ceremony is tomorrow.”

“Yes, it is.” Cecil wanted to slap himself. _You’re the freaking Voice. You can hold a conversation, dammit._ “You’re the first person to be given the rank. You must be proud.”

“I am.” Earl stared into his tea like he was trying to read the leaves through the steaming liquid. “But I’m also terrified.”

Cecil frowned. “That sounds… confusing.”

“It is.” Finally Earl looked up at him. “I’m confused about a lot of things, Cecil. I know I did the right thing. But--” He hissed as hot tea splashed across his white knuckles. Cecil was amazed the cup hadn’t shattered in his grip. Carefully Earl bent low and replaced his cup on the serving tray while Cecil offered him one of the ornate napkins.

“I hope you didn’t burn yourself,” he said softly as Earl patted his hands dry.

Another silence stretched between them as Earl studied his hands. They were red, but the burn didn’t look severe-- at least not to Cecil’s eyes. Earl would know better, but he seemed lost in thought.

“Earl?” he asked carefully. “Are you all right?”

“Just… confused. That’s all.” When Earl looked up, his expression was distant. Sad. Almost beatific. “I didn’t want to go out there without seeing you first.”

Cecil laid his hand on Earl’s shoulder-- an innocent touch. Platonic. Comforting.

He didn’t mean it as an invitation for Earl to crash headfirst into him and back him into the wall. He didn’t mean to be suddenly kissing the other man, dizzy and desperate, pulling him closer while Earl yanked at his hair and robe. He definitely didn’t mean to fumble for the doorknob and drag Earl back into his bedroom with him.

He didn’t mean to, but that’s how it happened. Earl was all over him, his hands scorching as they explored every inch of Cecil’s skin. Cecil grabbed at his uniform with less-than-regal grace, tugging it over his head and tossing it aside. Underneath his bare chest was gorgeous, illustrated with the scars of hundreds of acts of heroism and dusted with fine red hair.

Earl stared down at him, watching Cecil appreciate his body like a cat watches a bird. In his eyes blazed want and need and passion, smothered and beaten down into coals, only to reignite just as brilliantly as before.

A hand tangled in Cecil’s hair, and he shut his eyes and bared his throat, bracing for whatever Earl had to give him, no matter how rough or how wild.

He didn’t expect the gentle brush of chapped lips against his own.

“I love you,” Earl whispered, so close his breath warmed Cecil’s skin. “I’ve always loved you, Cecil.”

A gentle hand carded through Cecil’s hair. “Do you remember when we were little-- I was a page, and you used to come down to the courtyard to train with us? I fell for you the first time I saw you. I was constantly doing such stupid, crazy things so you might notice me. I lived to make you smile. I wanted so badly to impress you.”

He still remembered the boy with hair like a fire pit, covered in bruises from climbing the highest trees and searching out the library’s rarest grimoires, his tooth chipped from winning a fight with another cadet twice his size.

Cecil curled up to place a kiss on Earl’s forehead. “You did.” He thought that would make him happy, but instead Earl crumpled, his head bowed until his forehead rested on Cecil’s chest.

“Thank you,” he whispered. “Cecil-- thank you.”

Cecil sat up as best he could, gathering the larger man into his arms. “Earl-- Earl, please. Tell me what’s wrong. Whatever it is, I can fix it. I’ll do anything. Just let me--”

A finger fell on his lips, and he fell silent.

“It’s all right,” Earl murmured. “This is all I need. Just this. Just tonight.” He righted himself enough to press another kiss to Cecil’s lips. “Please don’t do anything else, Cecil. Please.”

“But I--”

“Promise me.” There was desperation in Earl’s eyes now-- a kind of fear Cecil had never seen in the other man before, and it shook him to the core. “Cecil, I’m begging you. Promise me you won’t try to change it. Please.”

“I promise,” Cecil said, and the magic of the oath wrapped around them, sinking deep into Cecil’s skin.

He didn’t even know what he was agreeing to, and he didn’t have the chance to question. As soon as Earl felt the sting of magic he pounced on Cecil, kissing him breathless. Cecil wanted to ask, but Earl was kissing him and touching him and oh yes, how had he gone so long without this?

And then Earl moved lower, and all thought and reason got swept away as Cecil was pulled under.

* * *

 

The next morning, all of Night Vale gathered to witness the Eternal Scout Ceremony.

 

Earl Harlan did not come back.

 

* * *

 

Night Vale languished.

Rain fell erratically. Sometimes it didn’t fall at all. Crops were weak and timid, livestock were all but barren. Pregnancies became rarer, and far more dangerous. Disaster still struck Night Vale-- and still there were miraculous last-minute miracles. The sort that Cecil used to chant into being, but it wasn’t him this time.

All of Night Vale strained to hear a Voice, but Cecil remained quiet.

He still spoke-- he hadn’t fallen to silence entirely-- but he never Spoke anymore. That magic was locked away deep inside him, and if he could, he would have thrown away the key.

_“To always serve my king and country.”_

Such a deceptively simple wish. And Cecil, idiot that he was-- he’d granted it, just like that. Without a thought to the consequences.

And now Earl was Night Vale’s eternal guardian.

He was gone.

And there was nothing Cecil could do about it. He had no idea what would happen if he unravelled a wish he himself had granted-- but thanks to that godsdamned fucking promise, he was powerless to even try.

But even if he’d locked away his Voice, he was still the king of Night Vale. And so he threw himself into his work (and a spiteful voice asked him if Earl had done the same, when he realized that some things cannot be). He took an interest in the workings of the kingdom, if only to keep his mind from running in the same tired circles. He attended meetings for the most mundane processes, questioned every aspect of every event, memorized the borders and kept careful watch over the young men and women who patrolled them.

And one day there was news from those borders: an emissary from the kingdom to the East would be heading this way. A diplomatic mission, they said, to foster the goodwill that had been sorely neglected in the past few years. And to prove their good faith, the ambassador would be accompanied by one of the royal family’s many princes.

A man named Carlos.

**Author's Note:**

> Not that I loved Caesar less, but I loved Rome more.
> 
> \--Julius Caesar, Act III, scene ii, line 22


End file.
